proceedings. So that after wandering a century or two in darkness and doubt, and suffering all the evils which such a state will inflict, we shall be most fortunate indeed if we find ourselves just where we now are. We shall leave the

fast land to be tossed on the bosom of a boundless ocean; to be driven about by every tempestuous gust and resistless current, and the utmost of our hope must be to escape ruin and wreck; and regain the shore we so madly deserted. We shall look to it with tears of true sorrow, and in the bitterness of self-reproach."

This cogent and ingenious argument in behalf of "the gathered wisdom of a thousand years," was published anonymously; but we presume we may now state without impropriety, that the profession is indebted for it to the pen of Joseph Hopkinson, Esq., a wise son of the law, who has drawn deeply out of that well whereout every man draweth according to the strength of his understanding.

HIGH-WAYS AND BY-WAYS.*

EVERY part of this volume bears the stamp of an original and elegant mind. The tales, four in number, are composed with considerable skill; the incidents are striking and probable; the narrative is full of ease, and animation, and interest; and the sentiments are vigorous, manly, and honourable. The style is graceful and flowing, always free from the reproach of vulgarity or carelessness, and often rising to the elevation and fire of impassioned eloquence. But it is not exempt from blemishes, if blemishes they may be called, which have arisen from an overwrought polish, and sprung from an unrestrained redundancy of power. The author's language has not any of the grosser extravagancies which have thrown ridicule upon the mannerism of Irish oratory; he is superior to studied alliteration, and guiltless of overstrained and fantastical images; but still he is too ambitious of ornament-too lavish of flowers-too often tempted to clothe with meretricious embellishment the purity of enthusiastic and natural thoughts. We understand that he is a native of "Green Erin," and an inheritor of one of the brightest names which have shed lustre on his country; but if we had not already known as much from report, we should infallibly, in the impetuous strength of his spirit, the fervour of his conceptions, and above all, the splendid but untempered exuberance of his diction, have detected the peculiarities of his national genius. He has dedicated his work to "his friend Washington Irving," and declared himself the admirer-as who is not-of that imaginative and highly gifted individual. But the author of the SketchBook has bestowed upon sentimental and romantic composition all the high colouring and richness which the modesty of nature can suffer; any thing more brilliant than his illustrations-more mellifluous—more exqui

High-Ways and By-Ways; or Tales of the Roadside, picked up in the French Provinces. By A Walking Gentleman. London: Whittakers. 1823. 8vo. Pp. 432.

sitely beautiful than his periods, our language is incapable of attaining. He has carried the power of his art as far as it will go; he has even hazarded something in the indulgence of its display; and a step beyond would have placed him on the verge of bad taste. The writer before us is no imitator; but congeniality of mind and pursuits has thrown him into the same track with his friend. He has pursued the same career, and with scarcely inferior success; but in the rapidity and ardour of his flight, he has not always known where to pause as discreetly.

Skilfully as the narrative of these tales is conducted, we think that the merit of the volume consists not so much in the framework of the stories, as in the keen-sighted and intimate knowledge of Freneh manners and life, and the ever-varying and lively pictures of the scenery and costumes of the country, with which it abounds. We know not whether our Walking Gentleman has actually enjoyed the pedestrian excursions through the French provinces by which he has chosen to introduce his descriptions; but, if so, we heartily envy him the rich fund of heathful and inspiring entertainment which has fallen to his happy and careless lot, and would that we could ourselves, casting off the sluggish coil of our vocation, spring like him over hill and through dale with our dog Ranger by our side, our Manton on shoulder, and a spirit within us as light and free, as reckless of every day ills, and as well tuned for communion with nature in her fairest moods. Be this as it may, and however he has gained his animating recollections, this much is certain, that he evinces a familiarity with the scenes that he paints, which close observation, or long residence in the French provinces could alone have produced. To the fidelity of his sketches we can in some instances bear testimony, and there is otherwise an air of truth and keeping about them which is not easily mistaken. He has read the French peasantry with a favourable and benevolent eye, and appreciated their character as, in the deep obscurity of provincial life, it still really exists in spite of the crimes and demoralizing influence of the Revolution and Imperial rule. They are to this day, where the secluded and little frequented situations of the south have preserved them from the contagious poison of the capital and populous towns, a light-hearted innocent race; hospitable, kind, and polite to the stranger, and harmless, simple, and honest in their relations with each other.

This scheme of interweaving the real adventures and scenery of a town, or at least such incidents and such scenes as the localities assigned to the tales might reasonably produce, is the great charm of the volume. There is no more agreeable species of fiction than that in which the creations of a glowing and pure imagination are blended with the realities of nature and life. Such compositions exercise a potent and curious spell upon our belief. We feel that a portion at least of the matter is true; we are irresistibly persuaded as we advance and become warmed with the attractions of the narrative, that the whole is a transcript of actual occurrences. We are conducted through scenery whose existence is undoubted, whose beauties are heightened by all the captivating aids of description; we are introduced to a state of society which we

know to be faithfully depicted; and we cannot comprehend, while we wander in imagination through the meads and vineyards, by wood and streamlet, and among the villages and peasantry of this substantial earth, that the edifices which our guide points out, and the personages whom he presents to us, are but the sports of a fairy work, the unreal visions of his fancy, the cheats and delusions of fiction. We have need

to retrace our footsteps, to sift the deception, to re-examine the whole view with incredulity and caution, before we can determine how far we shall trust the erring judgment of our bewildered senses. If, indeed, he who would pass this pleasant imposition upon us be a bungler, we will not travel in his company, we will have none of his dull and commonplace cheatery, we will dismiss him and his tale in the words of mine host of the immortal "Pilgrimage,"

"Abide, Robin, mine leve brother,

"Som better man shall tell us first another."

TRIAL OF THE REV. EDWARD IRVING.*

THE Rev. Edward Irving has caused almost as many controversies on his character, talents, and personal appearance, as were kindled in the Alsatian capital by the nose of Slaukenbergius' stranger. Debates are quite as warm, contradictions quite as positive, on the modern as on the older prodigy; and the only difference is that we are lectured to by newspapers and magazines, by the Courier, Times, Album, Pulpit, and John Bull, instead of the sentinel, the bandy-legged drummer, the trumpeter, the trumpeter's wife, the burgomaster's widow, the master of the inn, and the master of the inn's wife, who inflamed the citizens of Strasburg. ""Tis an imposture, my dear," said the master of the inn"'tis a false nose." ""Tis a true nose, "said his wife. ""Tis made of fir tree," said he; "I smell the turpentine." "There's a pimple on it," said she. ""Tis a dead nose," replied the innkeeper." "Tis not worth a single stiver," said the bandy-legged drummer" 'tis a nose of parchment."""Tis as long," said the trumpeter's wife," as a trumpet." "And of the same metal," said the trumpeter," as you hear by its sneezing.' "Tis as soft as a flute," said she. ""Tis brass," said the trumpeter. ""Tis a pudding's end," said his wife. So squabbled the Strasburgers, and so our periodical critics. Mr. Irving, says one, "is certainly an extraordinary man." He is "a man of very ordinary talents," says another-"He is a quack," cries John Bull; "An impudent Scotch quack," responds the Liberal; "We might start

The Trial of the Rev. Edward Irving, M. A. A Cento of Criticism. London: Brain, Butcher-hall Lane. 1823.

An Examination and Defence of the Writings and Preaching of the Rev. Edward Irving, M. A. Minister of the Caledonian Church, Cross Street, Hatton Garden. Including copious Extracts from his "four Orations for the Oracles of God," and his " Argument for judgment to Come." By a Layman. London: Fairburn.

a parallel for him in the Admirable Crichton," says the Liberal again. He is "a great brimstone merchant," says Cobbet, and has "a beard like a German scrubbing-brush;" he is "a fine young eagle," preaches Mr. John Clayton;." he is a flower," says the "Christian's Pocket Magazine;" "he is an ass," says the Leading Journal of Europe. "He is an expounder of the first order," exclaims one critic; "let him speak English," cries a neighbour; "he is a vain green youth," says this last; "he is thirty-five," observes another; aye, "forty" says a third. He is "a brawny bravo," an "accomplished barbarian," an "insane reviler;" and, on the other hand, "he becomes near to Cicero's definition of a complete orator." He is "a raw Scotch dominie," and again, "he would have been equal to Peter the Hermit in setting all Christendom in motion." He plays off an "ambiguous person and obscene antics;" and with respect to action, it is evident that "St. Paul at Athens," has been his study. Some declare that he puts them in mind of John the Baptist; others call him Dr. Squintum; the Examiner admires his "dark apostolical head of hair;" which the Liberal describes as "matted like a mane;" and a very nice observer has affirmed, that one side of his face is that of a Salvator Mundi, the other that of a Highland chief. It is thought that the lower features of his countenance resemble those of the Buonaparte family; and it is also asserted, that "he verges in his general appearance to the Simious tribe."*

The editor of the Courier recites an article published on the 17th of July, in which he declares he has not heard Mr. Irving, and will not, till he can do so without fighting his way into the church; forgetting that he complained to the world, about ten days before, of having been nearly suffocated in this same church, while listening to "a master-piece of oratory." It is explained, however, that the "We" of July the 7th and "We" of July the 17th were different people. We the first were great fighters, and small critics; We the second were not quite so pugnacious, and considerably harder to please. Public opinion is docile, and must accommodate itself to these little shiftings and variations.

That the printer of the late Liberal should have evidence to give on a subject of this kind, was hardly to be expected; but the Liberal, like other poor caitiffs, tarned its thoughts to religion when it was in the agonies of death.

The Album, Pulpit, Literary Chronicle, British Press, and New Evangelical Magazine, all send their witnesses to confound the unfortu nate divine; and John Bull rises against him in propriâ personâ, but masked. The ferment occasioned by his appearance is described with much vivacity. He repeats the testimony delivered some time ago in his paper, and is desired to sing a ballad to the tune of Nancy Dawson, in which his opinions on the present subject are set forth more at large. After some objection to this kind of evidence, the Court decides on re

The expressions we have cited are taken from publications referred to in the "Trial, from the London Magazine of August, Blackwood's, and the New Monthy Magazine of September, and the "Defence" (a paltry pamphlet) mentioned at the head of this article.

ceiving it, and the witness sounds forth one of his accustomed strains of lyrical satire; for John has this at least in common with the Bull of Phalaris, that his music always costs somebody a roasting.

The defendant then makes a speech (compiled in a great measure from his own discourses) and Mr. Phillips calls witnesses for the defence, among whom are the Editors of the New Times and Examiner, and the "Resident director" of the Liberal. Some of these, however, "break down," as it is technically styled, under examination, and the case is abruptly closed. Common Sense (the Judge) makes an harangue not much in character, and Mr. Irving is found guilty on the seventh count, but acquitted on all the rest, which the Court, for certain notable reasons, has considered inapplicable to his case.

Mr. Irving, although convicted, as the reporter informs us in his pamphlet, has received no sentence. We think it would not become the London public to be very forward in demanding his punishment; for, when the preacher is brought up to undergo condemnation, half the town ought to be standing at the same bar. If an account were taken of all misdemeanours within the jurisdiction of Common Sense, which have been committed during Mr. Irving's exhibitions, who would not be appalled at the reckoning? Let us only turn in fancy to the scene of this gentleman's achievements; let us imagine the Sabbath frighted from its propriety; Cross Street, Hatton Garden, thronged with equipages; the devout abandoning their churches; the profane making their debut at public worship in a Presbyterian chapel, with a standing-room ticket; privy-counsellors justling with "gentlemen of the press;" fashion reclining in the gallery, and piety upon the pulpit stairs, and intellect elbowing on the floor; Cruikshank caricaturing: Basil Montague exhorting from the window; Romeo Coates declaiming on the threshold, and the public at large brawling in the court-yard. The misdemeanours of a single morning thus occupied would form such a calendar that Common Sense would shrink from holding the assizes. Under such circumstances, it would be found the wisest measure to publish a general remission of offences hitherto committed in the affair of the Caledonian Chapel. The benefit of such an amnesty would, of course, extend to Mr. Irving; and, if he offended, again, he would again be amenable to the law. As to the public, we entertain no doubt of their amendment.

FOR THE PORT FOLIO.

RAWLE'S ADDRESSES TO THE BAR.*

The members of the bar of Philadelphia, eminent alike for their professional skill and their gentlemanly demeanor, formed, a few years ago,

•Two Addresses, to "the associated Members of the Bar of Philadelphia." Pronounced by William Rawle, Esquire, Chancellor of the Association. Philadelphia, 1824. Pp. 52. 8vo.